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Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.

Alexander Pope

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Alexander Pope
Age: 56 †
Born: 1688
Born: May 21
Died: 1744
Died: May 30
Literary Historian
Poet
Translator
the City
Pope the Poet
Alexander I Pope
Alexander
I Pope
Leave
Passion
Convulsion
Though
Weaker
Ever
Fits
Make
Passions
Time
Fit
Like
Stronger
Strength

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The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails.
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The only time you run out of chances is when you stop taking them
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No craving void left aching in the soul.
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Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.
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And more than echoes talk along the walls.
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He who tells a lie is not sensible of how great a task he undertakes for he must be forced to invent twenty more to maintain that one.
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Nature and nature's laws lay hid in the night. God said, Let Newton be! and all was light!
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A perfect Judge will read each work of Wit With the same spirit that its author writ: Survey the Whole, nor seek slight faults to find Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind.
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There are some solitary wretches who seem to have left the rest of mankind, only, as Eve left Adam, to meet the devil in private.
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Heaven gave to woman the peculiar grace To spin, to weep, and cully human race.
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A long, exact, and serious comedy In every scene some moral let it teach, And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
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From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
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Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy sting?
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By flatterers besieged And so obliging that he ne'er obliged.
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Wit is the lowest form of humor.
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You purchase pain with all that joy can give and die of nothing but a rage to live.
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What will a child learn sooner than a song?
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Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid.
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Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes And when in act they cease, in prospect rise.
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